


221C Baker Street

by swinggal138



Series: Sherlock's Equal [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Crime Scenes, Dysfunctional Relationships, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Poetry, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swinggal138/pseuds/swinggal138
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Alice run into relationship issues after Moriarty goes after her once again. Sherlock and Anne start working on another case together but can their relationship survive the re-appearance of Irene Adler?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a normal night at 221B Baker Street, normal being a relative term of course. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and his girlfriend, Alice, had come over to visit John Watson and Sherlock Holmes; Anne, Sherlock's girlfriend, was also over, like she usually was. Greg and Alice were cuddled together in a big green chair, Alice looking adorable in her red dress and black belt. She was sitting on his lap, leaning her head against his while his fingers traced up and down her leg. John was currently in the kitchen, preparing tea and biscuits for everyone. Meanwhile, over on the couch, both being bored and in sulky moods, Anne and Sherlock were fighting over who should sit there since it happened to be a favorite sulking place for both of them.  
"Sherlock, move! I was here first."  
"I don't care."  
"Well, I do. Now, sulk somewhere else."  
"No. It's my flat, my couch."  
Anne shot him a dirty look but knew she couldn't argue with that logic. She finally sat up and sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning back against his legs. However, she was not about to let him have the last word.  
"You know, this is just as much my flat too. I spend just as much, if not more, time here. I help with groceries and actually spend time with John."  
Sherlock started talking over her, contradicting her and complaining about paying most of the rent. The argument continued getting louder until Lestrade spoke up.  
"Oi! Would you two shut it already?! Why can't you cuddle like a normal couple and share the couch?"  
Both of them shot him a look and Sherlock simply replied with, "Yes, thank you for your input," before rolling over, turning his back to the room while Anne just leaned back again, crossing her arms across her chest and pouting. Alice got off of Greg's lap, heading to the kitchen.  
"I'm just going to see if John needs help with the tea."  
She wandered into the kitchen, helping the army doctor pour tea and place biscuits on a plate.  
"Are Sherlock and Anne at it again?" he asked.  
"Aren't they always?"  
"Gee, I just hate to see the children bicker like that."  
Alice laughed as she grabbed the creamer and went to fridge in order to fill it, but upon opening the door, she found herself being stared at by five human eyes, all different colors, just sitting on a plate in the middle shelf. She let out a small scream of surprise while Greg jumped from his seat, running into the kitchen to check on her.  
"Ugh," she said, "I will never get used to that."  
"You'd be surprised," John said, "What did Sherlock put in there this time?"  
"Eyeballs."  
"Actually," a voice said from the sitting room, "those are mine."  
Anne appeared around the corner, going straight to the fridge to make sure no one had touched her plate. Lestrade just looked at her with disbelief,  
"Oh god, really?"  
"Yes. It's an experiment."  
At this, Sherlock pulled himself up from the couch, stepped on the coffee table since he could never be bothered to go around it, and entered the kitchen.  
"And now you're using my fridge for experiments? I don't remember saying you could do that."  
"Well Alice won't let me at our place," Anne said, walking over to her boyfriend and grabbing the front of his tight black shirt, "I might let you look at them...if you're good."  
Sherlock finally directed his gaze down at her, a look of frustration on his face, as he pondered this information.  
"Fine," he said, heading back to the couch, but facing towards the room this time, leaving enough room for Anne to lie next to him. Maybe if he shared the couch, she would let him help with her experiment; he hadn't done an eye experiment in awhile.  
Greg and Alice resumed their place on the chair and John sat in the giant easy chair that was across from them. He took a moment to look at the room, once again well aware that he was a fifth wheel in a group that included Sherlock Holmes. Granted, he had had a girlfriend for awhile but the stress of being around Sherlock and Anne had been too much for her. John had enough trouble holding onto women living with just Sherlock and it was impossible with Anne thrown into the equation. Although she didn't technically live there, most of her time was spent there, usually helping Sherlock with cases or experiments. Granted, she was there on other occasions too and that was almost worse. Sherlock and Anne both had addictive personalities and that apparently included an addiction to the pleasure hormones released during sex. Instead of taking it out on the wall, the couple usually spent their "boring" times in the bedroom, much to John's dismay. Also, it wasn't much better being out in public with them. When they weren't insulting people with their deductions, they were trying to make the other one feel awkward, always wanting to be the winner of an unspoken contest between them. Most outings for the group usually left John taking a cab alone, Sherlock and Anne having left hours ago to head back to Baker Street. He knew he really shouldn't be surprised at the couple's behavior since they were the same person, but it was somewhat uncomfortable all the same.  
And speaking of uncomfortable, things were about to go there in a matter of minutes he realized, glancing over at the couch. Sherlock, frustrated by his earlier loss to Anne, was determined to mess with her in front of her their friends. His hand was slowly tracing lines up and down the side of her leg as he was leaning down to nip at her ear, Anne's ultimate weak spot; John was embarrassed that he knew that was her spot. He also noticed that Anne was starting to lose this battle as she squirmed a bit, trying to ignore the detective behind her.  
"So, Greg, Alice, I'm actually a bit hungry and don't think biscuits are going to cut it. Want to go grab a bite somewhere, now?" John asked, subtly indicating with his eyes over to the couch where Anne had surrendered her battle and was reaching her hand behind her to mess with Sherlock's curls. Alice and Greg quickly agreed, grabbing their coats and following John out the door while Sherlock wasted no time in capturing his girlfriend's lips, victorious in his battle.  
The next morning, John wandered down from his bedroom to find Sherlock in another pout on the couch wearing a t-shirt, pajama pants, and a robe.  
“She took your sheet again, didn’t she?” John asked.  
“Yes,” Sherlock, responded, wrapping his robe around him and curling up into a tighter ball on the couch.  
In the kitchen, Anne bustled around in her sheet, making breakfast while coffee brewed. John joined her, pouring himself a cup.  
“You guys need a case don’t you? You always bicker more when you don’t have a case.”  
“Yes. I can keep myself distracted enough with my essays and articles and stuff but he gets bored.”  
“Yeah, he’s always been like that. So, didn’t you use to work at a bookstore? What happened with that?”  
“Couldn’t keep putting up with the idiots that came in.”  
John didn’t really have an argument for that so he took his coffee into the living room, flopping down into the chair. Anne finished breakfast and brought a plate to each of her boys. She went back to the kitchen, grabbing herself a plate, only to come back and find that Sherlock hadn’t touched his. She sat down on the edge of the couch, touching her sulky boyfriend’s arm.  
“Sherlock, you need to eat. It has been days for both of us.”  
“Not hungry.”  
“Listen,” she said, leaning down and placing a few kisses on his neck, “if you eat, I promise to let you look at my eyeballs today.”  
She turned his face and placed an incredibly passionate kiss on his lips as John turned away awkwardly. Sherlock finally rolled over a bit, looking at his girlfriend incredulously.  
“Is that a promise?”  
“Yes.”  
He finally sat up, looking at the plate Anne had given him, and began eating. As all three were finishing their breakfast, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, appeared in the door.  
“Knock, knock,” she said, entering the flat with a bag of groceries, “I just brought you a few things I picked up at the store. Oh, Anne, it’s good to see you again.”  
“Hello Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the groceries.”  
“You’re welcome dear. Oh, did you make breakfast? I swear, if you didn’t cook for these boys, they would probably starve.”  
She set the groceries down on the counter in the kitchen, picking up a few things as she did.  
“Always such a mess in here.”  
Going to the fridge, she opened it to put a few things away and gasped as she saw the plate Anne had left there.  
“Oh my goodness...eyes!”  
“Sorry. Those are mine.”  
“Yours dear?”  
“Yes...it’s an experiment.”  
“Oh my...you really are a good girl for Sherlock. So nice to see him with someone finally, someone who makes him...happy.”  
Putting away the last of the groceries, she exited the flat. John followed shortly after, saying he needed to run a few errands. Sherlock and Anne finished their breakfast in relative silence. Then Anne cleaned the dishes and finally pulled out the eyes for Sherlock to look at as she explained her experiment; the look on his face was comparable to that of a five-year-old.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Anne and Alice were at their flat together for what felt like the first time in weeks. Greg had just left and Alice was washing the remnants of the dinner dishes.  
“You know,” Alice said, turning to Anne, “our lease is almost up here. I can’t believe we have been here almost a year now.”  
“I know. Time has flown by. And look at us...how different our lives are now.”  
“It’s true. So, are we renewing our lease? Staying here?”  
“We could I guess...although I must say it is a bit pricey. And with me not working at the bookstore anymore…”  
Alice just shot her a look.  
“And whose fault is that?”  
“It’s not my fault people are stupid.”  
“No, but it is your fault that you just decided to stop showing up one day.”  
“I was bored and there were better things to do.”  
Alice just rolled her eyes; it was quite typical of her best friend to just quit a job with no notice whatsoever.  
“So, that still doesn’t answer my question, are we renewing the lease?”  
“Well, I actually talked to Mrs. Hudson and she said there is a place open on Baker Street, in the basement. We could have it for pretty cheap.”  
“Are you really suggesting we move to Baker Street?”  
“Well, why not? We already know our neighbors, the landlady is a friend of ours, the rent is excellent...and you would be closer to Greg...”  
Alice looked at her flatmate for a moment; she couldn’t deny that she wanted to live closer to her boyfriend...and paying less was a definite bonus.  
“Okay, I’m sold. So, when you we move?”  
“Next Friday...I already told Mrs. Hudson we would take it and she will have it all ready by then.”  
Alice shook her head at Anne; she should have known this plan was already in action.  
The next Friday, Anne and Alice moved all their stuff over to the new flat at 221C Baker Street, with the help of Greg and John of course; Sherlock couldn’t be bothered due to boredom. They got all their stuff arranged and looked around their new place.  
“Yeah, I think we’re going to like it here,” Alice concluded, smiling at Greg who leaned down and placed a kiss on her lips.  
“I think so too,” Anne agreed, “Well, I’m going upstairs to see Sherlock.”  
And Alice didn’t see her flatmate for the next four days.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days after moving into her new flat, Anne decided she should probably go back. She had been spending some time with Sherlock, not entirely sure how long, but now she was in need of a shower and John was currently occupying the one in 221B. Normally, she would just wait, not wanting to go all the way back to her own flat, but there were definite perks to living right downstairs. She left Sherlcok working on one of his experiments with a promise to be back soon and made her way home. Upon entering, she called out,  
“Alice! Alice you home?”  
Receiving no answer, she shrugged and shut the door. Suddenly, a scream filled 221 Baker Street, bringing Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock running.  
“What’s happened?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
Anne pointed to the wall behind the door she had just closed, unable to speak. With ropes tied around her body and dangling from a hook on the wall was Alice, a picture frame hung around her neck. John, having heard the commotion while getting out of the shower, came running to join them. Together, he and Sherlock took Alice down from the wall and placed her gently on the wall, John kneeling over her, checking her.  
“She’s got a pulse and is still breathing; she’s just unconscious. Here, let’s get her untied and upstairs.”  
The two boys unwrapped her and took the frame off her while Mrs. Hudson held a still-trembling Anne. They took Alice upstairs and laid her on Sherlock’s bed. It was then that Sherlock noticed an envelope pinned to her chest. He opened it and found the a note inside. He read it out loud to John and Anne, who had calmed down a bit having recovered from her shock and the assurance that Alice was still alive and only under the effect of tranquilizers..  
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,   
Looking as if she were alive. I call   
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands  
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.   
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said   
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read   
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,   
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,   
But to myself they turned (since none puts by   
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)   
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,   
How such a glance came there; so, not the first   
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not   
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot   
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps   
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps   
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint   
Must never hope to reproduce the faint   
Half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff   
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough   
For calling up that spot of joy. She had   
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,   
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er   
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.   
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,   
The dropping of the daylight in the West,   
The bough of cherries some officious fool   
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule   
She rode with round the terrace—all and each   
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,   
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thanked   
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked   
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name   
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame   
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill   
In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will   
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this   
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,   
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let   
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set   
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,   
—E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose   
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,   
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without   
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;   
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands   
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet   
The company below, then. I repeat,   
The Count your master’s known munificence   
Is ample warrant that no just pretence   
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;   
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed   
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go   
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,   
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,   
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!”

Sherlock finished reading and looked over at his two companions. John looked just as confused as him but Anne didn’t seem phased.  
“It’s Robert Browning.”  
“What?” Sherlock asked.  
“Robert Browning. That’s his poem My Last Duchess. It essentially talks about a man who kills his wife and has her painting hanging on his wall.”  
“Well what was it doing pinned to Alice?”  
“She was hanging from a wall, picture frame around her neck. Makes sense I guess. Really, this has Moriarty all over it. Perhaps he is sending us another message.”  
“Probably. So now what?”  
“Well, what can we do but wait for his next move?”  
John just stood looking at the couple; it was safe to say they were no longer bored. At that moment, Lestrade entered the flat, out of breath and looking completely panicked. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had called him to tell him what happened; Anne kind of wished she hadn’t done that yet.  
“Where is she? Where’s Alice? Is she okay?”  
“She’s fine,” Sherlock said, “Only a little tranquilizer. She’s in the bedroom; will probably be out for awhile.”  
Lestrade gave him a look but went through the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom to be with his girlfriend while Anne, Sherlock, and John sat contemplating what had just happened.


	4. Chapter 4

A week later, Alice had fully recovered from her trauma and had easily moved on with her life. Honestly, after her first run-in with Moriarty, this one was quite minor. Lestrade, however seemed to be having issues with it. That Friday, he asked Alice if he could meet her for coffee at their favorite cafe around noon; she thought it was weird that he wanted to meet her on a weekday but she would never complain about seeing her boyfriend. Upon arriving, Greg had her vanilla latte waiting and she happily went to join him, placing a quick kiss on his lips. She sat down across from him, taking a sip, and looked at him; something was wrong.  
“Listen...Alice...we need to talk.”  
Alice felt her heart drop into her stomach; he had just uttered the four worst words in the English language.  
“What is it?”  
“I think we need to stop seeing each other.”  
“What?! Why?! Did I do something wrong?”  
“No...not at all. I just...it kills me to see you getting hurt all the time.”  
“I don’t understand.”   
“Listen, the only reason you find yourself getting into the horrible and dangerous situations is because of me and my close association with Sherlock. I care about you far too much to keep placing you in this kind of danger.”   
“What about Anne? I mean, she’s dating Sherlock; I’m pretty sure my friendship with her places me in far worse danger.”   
“No, because Moriarty isn’t after Anne. He’s after Sherlock...well, and me too because I am trying to put him behind bars...or in an insane asylum. Listen, the point is, I think that my relationship with you is constantly putting you in harm’s way and I love you too much to continue doing that.”  
At this point, Alice had started to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to stop them. She had thought the worst pain she could feel was Nick cheating on her, but she had been wrong. Greg reached over and took her hand.  
“I promise, as soon as we can catch Moriarty, we will be back together. I want you in my life for a long time...and I think in order for that to happen, it means us being apart for awhile. At least until this crazy psychopath can be handled.”  
Alice didn’t give him a reply; she had no words. Lestrade felt his heart break, looking at the woman he loved crying because of him, but he knew he was doing the right thing for her, protecting her. That was his job wasn’t it? He decided to continue,  
“Also, I think you should move out of Baker Street, find a place of your own or something. I’m not saying stop being friends with Anne but get as far away from Sherlock as you can. It really is for your own safety.”  
Alice finally spoke up,  
“No, I am not moving. I can’t stop you from breaking up with me; I know that. But you can’t force me to leave Anne...or Baker’s Street. I am staying where I am.”  
She wanted to continue, to say something to try and make him stay, but the look on his face told her it was useless; he had made up his mind. He couldn’t think of anything more to say so he slowly rose from his chair, kissed her softly on the cheek, and walked out of the cafe, holding back his own tears as long as he could. Alice watched him leave, knowing she might never be with him again.


	5. Chapter 5

Alice had just left for her date with Greg, which was odd considering that it was the middle of the day but Anne chose to ignore that fact. John was in Dublin for a few days and Mrs. Hudson had gone to meet a friend for tea so Anne decided to wander up to her boyfriend’s flat. He was probably still upset with her from their small tiff that morning over the rules of Cluedo but she would make it up to him; it wasn’t her fault that she proved to him the rules were correct.   
When she entered the flat, she found him staring out the window, sheet wrapped around his waist, playing his violin. He glanced at her when she came in, then automatically went back to his playing. Shaking her head, she approached him and put her arms around him, running her hands up his bare chest. Sherlock put his violin down and moved away from her, going to lie on the couch. She was about to just leave, not really feeling like putting up with his pouting, when she noticed the wicked glint in his eyes. Anne went over and stood by the couch, staring down at the half-naked man on the couch.  
“Once again, you didn’t leave any room for me,” she said with a smirk.  
“Wrong,” he said, wrapping an arm around her knees, causing her to collapse on top of him, instantly moving to kiss her neck, sinking his teeth into her collarbone. She jumped a bit, maneuvering herself so that she could capture his lips with hers, pushing her tongue inside to tangle with his. One of his hands found its way to her hair, gripping hard, holding her to him while the other ran up her side and around to her front, starting to work the buttons of the green blouse she was wearing. Anne was just beginning to run her hands to the edge of Sherlock’s sheet when Alice appeared in the door. All it took was one glance at her, eyes red from crying, make-up slightly messed up, even after she clearly re-did it in the cab ride over, to know she needed to take her best friend out somewhere.   
“Sorry Sherlock, I have to go.”  
“What?! Why...” he began, then took one look at Alice, “Oh yes. Go. I will see you later.”  
“Later,” Anne replied, re-buttoning her top and walking with Alice down to their flat.

. . .

Less than an hour later, Anne and Alice were all dressed up and out at a local pub. Alice had told Anne everything that had happened and Anne felt that a night out of drunken fun was just what her best friend needed. They ordered drink after drink, enjoying an actual girls’ night out, something they hadn’t had in a long time. After awhile, both girls were fairly drunk, calling a cab to take them back to her flat. Anne knew that it would take time for Alice to recover but hopefully a night out helped take her mind off it for awhile. Anne tucked her best friend safely into bed, leaving a glass of water by her bedside for the morning. However, being the insomniac that she was, she was far from tired and decided to got visit Sherlock, maybe finish what they started earlier. She loudly stumbled up the stairs and into the open front door, finding Sherlock bent over his microscope in the kitchen. He glared at her for interrupting his work then continued looking at his slides. Anne slipped up behind him, kissing down his neck and running her hands up and down his chest, moving quickly towards his sheet. Finally ceasing from his work, he grabbed her wrists and pulled his neck away from her.  
“No...you reek of alcohol.”  
“So? Maybe you and I could have a drink, and then you and I could smell the same.”  
“You know I only drink on rare occasion. And that sentence barely made coherent sense. No, you are going to bed.”  
“I don’t want to,” Anne said, pouting.  
“And I don’t care,” Sherlock said, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder, knowing she wouldn’t budge otherwise. He walked her down the hall and placed her in his bed, removing his sheet and placing it over her; she was asleep in moments. After placing a glass of water by her bed, he gently kissed her temple and resumed his work.  
The next morning, Anne awoke, head pounding which was quickly relieved by the water left by her bed. She wandered out into the living room in the sheet but Sherlock was nowhere to be found; he was probably getting more body parts from Molly. Bored, she wandered back down to her place to see how Alice was doing, deciding there would be no more drunken nights for her.


	6. Chapter 6

The next month was rough on both girls, probably worse for Alice. Anne spent as much time with her as possible as she recovered from the break-up, telling Sherlock she would make it up to him later; he didn’t really seem to care that much, distracting himself with experiments. Greg had been carefully avoiding Baker Street, which was easier since there were no major cases, leaving Anne bored and Alice missing him. But that all changed one day when Sherlock got a phone call.  
“I need you and Anne to get down to Pentonville Prison...now.”  
Sherlock looked at his girlfriend, who had stopped by to drop off some milk, since she knew they were probably out.  
“Greg needs us at Pentonville immediately,” he said, eyes alight with excitement.  
Anne’s eyes mirrored his, grabbing her coat and running downstairs to tell Alice she was going out for a bit.  
When they arrived at the scene, Greg greeted them outside, getting them easily through security and leading them down to a cell in the detoxification unit. It was sanctioned off with yellow tape and police and prison security were milling around. In the middle of a cell lay a mangled body, quite bloody and cut up. Sherlock and Anne ducked under the tape, putting on gloves to examine the body.  
“What can you tell us about the prisoner?” Sherlock asked.  
“Well, that’s the thing,” Lestrade began, “he’s not a prisoner. He was actually head of security here.”  
“Sherlock, look at this,” Anne said, calling attention to the gashes covering the man’s body, “These look like claw marks, works of a predatory cat almost.”  
“Yes...interesting. It would appear this man was mauled to death by a vicious animal yet turns up dead in a prison cell.”   
“This was found on his person,” Lestrade said, handing him a blood stained envelope.  
Sherlock opened it, reading the poem inside out loud,

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:  
All mimsy were the borogoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe.

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!  
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!  
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun  
The frumious Bandersnatch!’

He took his vorpal sword in hand;  
Long time the manxome foe he sought—  
So rested he by the Tumtum tree  
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,  
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,  
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,  
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through  
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!  
He left it dead, and with its head  
He went galumphing back.

‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?  
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!  
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’  
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:  
All mimsy were the borogoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe.”

As he finished, everyone looked at him, waiting for interpretation, but it was Anne who spoke first,  
“Jabberwocky. Lewis Carroll. Wow, if this is Moriarty, which it probably is, let’s be honest, he is getting sloppy, boring, obvious.”  
Sherlock shot his girlfriend a look of confusion, the first time he had ever done that at a crime scene.  
“Oh, come on. ‘the jaws that bite, the claws that catch’ and our victim is mauled by an animal? Bit basic, don’t you think?”  
“It is. He’s broken his pattern of contacting me too. Maybe we aren’t dealing with Moriarty after all, but someone entirely new.”  
Anne and Sherlock removed their gloves and left the crime scene; there was more thinking to be done, motives to be analyzed. And Anne had to think of a way to break it to Alice that she might not have as much time to spend with her now.


	7. Chapter 7

The next two weeks passed by quickly for Anne and Sherlock; they got very little sleep and ate very little as they analyzed every possible detail of the case. However, the weeks passed slowly for Alice, as she continued missing Greg. Since Anne wasn’t around too much, she decided to spend her time with John, taking more time to get to know him. They drank tea together, talked over family history and personal interests. On occasion, John was there to comfort her when she got a bit upset over Greg. Alice had to admit those times came a lot less though now since she had started spending time with John; at least she had someone to talk to.  
One night, Alice, John, Anne, and Sherlock were all hanging out in the flat, Anne and Sherlock having actually taken a break from their research. Alice and John were in the chairs while Sherlock and Anne were sitting on the couch. Conversation was running smoothly when Anne began to trace her fingers up Sherlock’s thigh; John was getting slightly sick of this game they played; although Anne appeared to winning tonight which was usually not the case. Sherlock was squirming in his seat, attempting to explain different kinds of tobacco ash to Alice, which she really could care less about, when he finally gave in, blatantly reaching over to slip his hand under Anne’s shirt, just lifting the bottom of it up. John and Alice took that as their cue to leave...quickly.  
Not really knowing where to go, they headed to a nearby pub. John ordered them both drinks and they sat talking for hours. Several drinks later, they decided it was probably safe to head back to Baker Street. They walked along the street, not really drunk but not sober either. John spontaneously wrapped his arm around Alice’s waist and she did the same. They walked up the stairs and were just about to enter the flat when they were stopped by the suspicious noises emitting from Sherlock’s bedroom.  
“My place?” Alice asked.  
“Your place.”  
They wandered back down to Alice’s flat and went inside. She went to the kitchen, pouring them each a glass of sherry while he started a fire due the cold temperature prevailing in the flat. They sat on some pillows, sipping their sherry and continuing their conversation. After awhile they both grew tired and decided bed was probably a good idea.  
“You can stay with me tonight...if you want. I’d like the company” Alice offered.  
John agreed to it, running upstairs for a quick moment to grab some pajama pants and a t-shirt, then joining her in her bedroom. Alice had already changed into her pajamas and had crawled into bed. John joined her, sliding under the covers next to her. Instinctively, she rolled over, curling up against his chest as his arms wrapped around her. They looked at each other for a moment, pondering if what they were doing was a good idea, before John lowered his mouth to hers, capturing her lips. They both sighed as the kiss deepened, both of them enjoying the feeling of kissing someone, feeling physical connection to someone. John finally broke the kiss,  
“Should we be doing this?” he asked.  
“I don’t know...I don’t see a reason why we shouldn’t. I’m single, you’re single.”  
“Well, that is hard logic to argue with,” he replied, lowering his head back down to hers, kissing her with more passion this time as his hands threaded in her hair. Her hands ran up his chest, sliding behind his neck. John slipped his tongue past her lips, exploring her mouth as he rolled her on top of him. Alice slowly reached down, parting their kiss enough to remove his shirt over his head.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Alice slowly awoke, looking at the sleeping army doctor next to her. Although she hadn't planned on anything happening last night, she was glad that it did. Not that she was over Greg by any means, but it seemed he was getting over her. When they broke up, Alice truly believed he still loved her and was just protecting her. But when he didn't even contact her anymore, cut off their friendship completely, she started to doubt his motivations for breaking up with her. Plus, when she was out last week, she saw him with some woman. If he could move on, why couldn't she? And John was a nice guy; he had been a great friend to her over the last few weeks. Of course, she didn't know how he viewed last night. Maybe to him it was just some one night fun and he would be done with her upon waking up.  
Just as she was thinking this, John slowly stirred and opened his eyes, smiling up at her.  
"Good morning," he said, spontaneously sitting up and giving her a kiss.  
"Morning."  
They both slowly stretched and got out of bed.  
"Think it's safe to return to your place yet?"  
"Only one way to find out I guess. If it is, would you like some breakfast?"  
"I would love some."  
The two of them sleepily made their way back upstairs, listening for any noises that might send them running back downstairs. But all seemed quiet and when they walked through the open front door, they found Sherlock and Anne in pajamas, once again hunched over their research. Sherlock didn't look up when they came in but Anne lifted her eyes from her book, doing a double-take when she realized who it was. Anne looked at her flatmate with a raised eyebrow and a look that told Alice they would be talking later.  
"We're going to have some breakfast. Would you like some?" John asked, already knowing the answer.  
Anne and Sherlock resumed their work as John and Alice bustled around the kitchen, cooking. There was an awkward silence before John finally spoke up.  
"So, I know this might be a bit out of order considering last night but would you like to grab dinner with me sometime?"  
"I'd like that."  
They smiled at each other and continued making breakfast.

. . .

John and Alice's dinner went well and they found they really enjoyed each other's company. Other dates followed and soon Alice was spending almost as much time in 221B as Anne was. However, Sherlock and Anne were getting bored again. It had been a few weeks since the last murder and it seemed to be an isolated incident, making the deductive couple quite unhappy. Their boredom was reaching a critical level when Sherlock finally got a call from Lestrade.  
"We've got another one. Bank of England."  
Sherlock and Anne wasted no time grabbing a cab, arriving at the bank in record time. The Detective Inspector led them deep down into the bank to an isolated vault. Gloves on, they entered the small space, not missing the heavy smoke smell that filled the place.  
"Poor bastard died of smoke inhalation," Lestrade summed up.  
"Yes, and from the smell of it, in this very vault," Sherlock said.  
"But how did the smoke get in here?" Anne pondered.  
"How indeed."  
"Perhaps it was pumped in through a small crack in the door then the vault sealed as the killer made his escape."  
"Yes, sound theory. Now, let's see what note was left with this one," Sherlock said, removing the envelope and reading the message inside aloud.

Compelled by calamity's magnet   
They loiter and stare as if the house   
Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought   
Some scandal might any minute ooze   
From a smoke-choked closet into light;   
No deaths, no prodigious injuries   
Glut these hunters after an old meat,   
Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies. 

Mother Medea in a green smock   
Moves humbly as any housewife through   
Her ruined apartments, taking stock   
Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery:   
Cheated of the pyre and the rack,   
The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away.

Sherlock looked to his girlfriend for interpretation, knowing she would probably recognize it. And she did not disappoint.  
"Aftermath by Sylvia Plath. Hmm...this one is a bit more creative. Perhaps we are dealing with Moriarty after all. I mean, the two murders have already been at places he has proven he can break into with little effort."  
"Very true. But what is he playing at? No other form of contact besides the poems left on the bodies. What is his game?"  
Removing their gloves, the couple returned to the flat to think and consider all the facts; this was getting exciting.  
There was about a week before the next murder occurred. During that time, Alice and John had continued dating but things didn't seem to be working out anymore. They just seemed more like friends than a couple and John was starting to feel a bit guilty about dating his friend's ex, even if he hadn't even spoken to Greg since they broke up. So one night, after a particularly awkward date night, they decided to just call it quits. A friendship just seemed like a much better option for them at this point. Therefore, Alice once again found herself single, spending her free time with Mrs. Hudson now since Anne was far too distracted with the case.  
One day, Alice was having tea with Mrs. Hudson, when the older woman stopped mid-pour to look at the girl sitting across from her.  
"Are you okay dear?"  
"Yes, I'm fine. Why?"  
"Your eyes are always so sad."  
"Sorry. I guess I just still really miss Greg, which is silly because I know he doesn't miss me."  
"Oh I don't think that's true dear. You are a lovely girl and he was quite smitten with you from what I saw. Just give him some time; he'll come around. Men don't always know what they want right away."  
"I guess you're right. I still wish I could just talk to him again."  
"I understand dear. You know, I am going away on holiday for awhile to visit a friend in Edinburgh for a few weeks. Would you like to come with me? It might take your mind off things."  
"Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude on your holiday."  
"Nonsense. You wouldn't be intruding at all."  
"Well, okay then. Yeah. I would love to come."  
"Great. We leave day after tomorrow. Now, one lump or two in your tea?"


	9. Chapter 9

The next murder came as a surprise to Sherlock and Anne as they got a call to come quickly to a spot by the Thames, Lestrade giving them the exact location. The body was lying next to the river when they got there, clearly drowned then dragged out to have the envelope pinned to her chest because the note wasn't wet. This time Anne went over to read it.

In spring of youth it was my lot  
To haunt of the wide world a spot  
The which I could not love the less-  
So lovely was the loneliness  
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,  
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall  
Upon that spot, as upon all,  
And the mystic wind went by  
Murmuring in melody-  
Then-ah then I would awake  
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,  
But a tremulous delight-  
A feeling not the jewelled mine  
Could teach or bribe me to define-  
Nor Love-although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,  
And in its gulf a fitting grave  
For him who thence could solace bring  
To his lone imagining-  
Whose solitary soul could make  
An Eden of that dim lake.

She considered the poem a moment before announcing,  
"It's The Lake. Edgar Allan Poe."

. . . 

She and Sherlock didn't say much as they left the crime scene; it was getting frustrating at this point. Although they had figured out the connection of the poems to cause of death, there was a deeper meaning they couldn't quite get at it seemed. And they needed to figure it out fast before there were more victims. They were silent on the cab ride home, wheels turning in both of their heads, trying to process everything. Silence still prevailed as they wandered up to 221B but their trance was broken by the woman seated in the green chair, conversing with John. She dressed in a pure white dress, her hair done up in a fancy style on top of her head. The way she held herself spoke of elegance and power; Anne didn't like her. Especially after she saw the way she was staring at Sherlock as she got up from her chair and approached him, kissing him on the cheek in greeting.  
"Hello Mr. Holmes."  
"Ms. Adler."  
"I bet you're surprised to see me."  
"I am a bit but I assume you have a purpose in coming here."  
"Yes, I think you will be very interested in the pictures I have been receiving."  
Ms. Adler finally turned to Anne, as if noticing her there for the first time.  
"Hello," she said, "Sherlock who is this?"  
"I'm Anne. Sherlock's girlfriend. I don't believe I caught your name."  
The woman gave Sherlock an amused look before answering.  
"Irene Adler. I'm an...old friend...of Sherlock's."  
"Really? Don't think he's mentioned you."  
"Well that's a shame. We have quite a history, he and I."  
John, who had been watching the whole thing from his chair, finally stood, stepping between Irene and Anne, trying to dissolve the tension.  
"So, who wants some tea?"  
"Sorry John. We don't have time for tea. Sherlock and I have a lot of thinking to do right now. There are three people dead now and we don't want anymore," Anne said, moving towards her spot at the table where she had a stack of books waiting.  
"Actually," Sherlock said, "I think we should look at the pictures Ms. Adler mentioned. I have a feeling they might be connected to our case."  
Anne begrudgingly agreed, joining Sherlock on the couch as they looked at the pictures she had been sent. All three were of the victims.  
"I don't understand why he would be sending you the photos," Sherlock pondered.  
"Well all of these victims were regular clients of mine."  
"Excuse me, clients?" Anne asked.  
"Yes, I'm a dominatrix dear. Wow, he really didn't tell you about me did he? Oh Sherlock, I'm hurt."  
"So these victims possibly all had secrets to hide...maybe secrets he wants..." Sherlock said, ignoring both women and standing to pace around the room. Anne automatically went to her books, searching for connections with the poems.  
"And maybe those secrets somehow are connected to the poems. Maybe it's not just about the way they were murdered."  
Sherlock and Anne shared a look across the room, fire in both their eyes; Irene watched them with an expression that was both amusement and jealousy.  
Hours later, Anne and Sherlock were still pouring over books. John had gone out for awhile and Irene was trying to keep herself amused, seeing as both of them were ignoring her. At one point, she had tried turning on the telly but they had both shouted, in unison,  
"Turn that off; I'm trying to think."  
Eventually, Irene was just exhausted and asked Sherlock if she could sleep for a bit.  
"You remember where the bedroom is."  
Anne shot him a look that would have probably killed him if he had even seen it. Instead, the daggers in her eyes went unnoticed. After awhile, she began to get tired too. Since the bed was taken, she decided to lay down on the couch, attempting to get Sherlock to join her but he was too distracted. She fell asleep alone, hoping Sherlock would pull out of his trance enough to wake her in an hour or two so they could continue working. However, it wasn't Sherlock who woke her up, but John.  
"Anne, wake up. Your phone is ringing."  
"Hello," Anne answered, still not quite awake.  
"Anne! Where are you?"  
"I'm sorry. Who is this?"  
"It's Greg. Where are you? We need your help; there's been another murder. Sherlock showed up awhile ago."  
"Oh, okay. Where am I going?"  
"The London Standard."  
"On my way."  
Anne quickly threw her hair back, grabbed coffee, and headed to the crime scene. She couldn't believe that Sherlock left without her; that wasn't like him at all. But when she got to the scene, she saw why. Standing next to him by the body was Irene Adler; fire practically shot from Anne's eyes. As she approached them, she tried to ignore the smug look on Irene's face.  
"Oh, there you are," Sherlock greeted her, "We have man, stoned to death apparently, and with this poem attached to his chest."  
He handed her an envelope and she read it aloud,

I died for beauty, but was scarce  
Adjusted in the tomb,  
When one who died for truth was lain  
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?  
‘For beauty,’ I replied.  
‘And I for truth, - the two are one;  
We brethren are,’ he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,  
We talked between the rooms,  
Until the moss had reached our lips,  
And covered up our names.

"What do you make of it?" Sherlock asked.  
"I'm not entirely sure. It's Emily Dickinson and she can be pretty cryptic in her work but this specific poem is not really clear on a way to die. The only possible connection I could make is tombstone...therefore stoned to death? It's a long shot but Moriarty is not exactly the most straightforward. Also, maybe he is trying to make a statement about truth and the newspaper. I don't know."  
"Ah, interesting...he does like to make those random kinds of connections. Irene, is he one of your clients?"  
"Yes, he was. I knew what he liked quite well."  
"Ah...this is getting fascinating. Come on, we have more research to do."  
"I'll take my own taxi back," Anne told Sherlock, "I need to think."  
When Anne finally got back to 221B, she had cooled off a bit and was ready to research some more, looking forward to working on the case with her boyfriend, something she was sure Irene Adler couldn't actually do. However, when she walked in the flat, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Figuring he probably stopped off at the morgue or something, Anne got right to work, writing pages and pages of notes, trying to find links. Hours must have passed and Anne only looked up from her work when John walked in.  
"Anne? Where's Sherlock?"  
She looked around the room, realizing for the first time that he actually never came back from the crime scene.  
"Hmmm....I don't actually know. I guess I haven't seen him since the crime scene this morning."  
"This morning? You mean the one you went to yesterday?"  
Anne finally glanced out the window, realizing that it must be about mid-morning.  
"Yeah...I guess so. Didn't notice how long its been."  
"So he didn't come back with you?"  
"No, I decided to take my own cab."  
"You're upset with him about the Irene Adler thing, aren't you?"  
"A bit. Sherlock is my boyfriend and she had no right butting her nose in where it isn't wanted. Plus, she is taking over my crime scenes and it impedes my thinking. Which speaking of...I need to take a shower."  
"A shower?"  
"Yes...it helps me think."  
She took a long shower and finally got out, wrapped herself in her towel, and resumed her work; she would deal with Sherlock when he got home.


	10. Chapter 10

But several days later, he still wasn't home. It took Anne awhile to notice it had been that long but, once she did, that fact wouldn't leave her alone. She was picking up her phone to text him when it started ringing.  
"Hello?"  
"It's Greg. We have another one. New Scotland Yard."  
"I'm on my way."  
This was starting to get out of hand; victims were showing up at a more frequent rate and Anne felt no closer to finding a connection or a solution than she had when the first one appeared. She thought about calling Sherlock and telling him to meet her at the crime scene but then thought better of it. If he wanted to be off spending time with this other woman, then that was his choice. But Anne refused to let him interfere with solving the case; he hadn't been much use anyway. Literature and poetry was her area, not his. So she jumped in a cab and headed to the crime scene, alone. Upon arriving, Greg escorted her into the building, to a private office in the back. There, a man lay dead on the desk, no apparent sign of physical harm. She was putting on her gloves when a nasty looking woman with curly black hair gave her a dirty look.  
"What? Do we only get the one freak today?"  
Anne spun on her heel, glaring at the woman, looking between her and another man in the room, Anderson, who was apparently dusting a plant for fingerprints, before replying,  
"Donovan, please don't take your jealousy out on me."  
"Me? Jealous of you? What for?"  
"Because I can get a man of both intelligence and attractiveness while you are only able to obtain a man who looks like a goblin...and he is only using you for sex, at that."  
Anderson and Donovan shared an awkward look but neither said anything more to Anne as she continued her examination of the body.  
"Cause of death?"  
"Undetermined as of yet," Greg replied, "but he did have this pinned to his jacket."  
Anne took the envelope and read it,

I close my eyes in divinity and pain.  
I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.  
I am free of the instant there is no Time!  
I have lived out the phases of life

"It seems shorter than usual.”  
"Yes, thank you Anderson. That's because it's only the excerpt of a poem, Peyote Poem by Michael McClure to be precise. Lestrade, sent this body to the morgue and have Molly send me a toxicology report right away."  
"A toxicology report?"  
"Yes, I have a feeling he died of a drug overdose...hallucinogenic I imagine."  
"Alright. Anderson, Donovan, you heard her. Get this body to St. Bart's. Anne, can I talk to you?"  
"Sure. What's going on?"  
"Where's Sherlock today?"  
"Busy," she replied, her face clouding over.  
"Is everything okay with you two?"  
"Just fine."  
"It's 'The Woman' isn't it?"  
"Who?"  
"Irene Adler...she calls herself 'The Woman'."  
"She would."  
"Listen, I understand you're jealous, I get that."  
"I'm not jealous."  
Greg just looked at her and continued.  
"I know you're jealous but I promise you, she is not a threat to you and Sherlock. He had a chance with her years ago and he never took it; didn't have a desire to. But you, he loves you."  
Anne wasn't convinced but she decided to let it drop. Greg looked at Anne again with a completely new look in his eyes.  
"How's Alice?"  
"She's alive. Actually, she's on holiday in Scotland with Mrs. Hudson right now."  
"Good..good. That will keep her safe."  
"She misses you."  
"Yeah...well...I miss her too."  
Donovan called to him and Lestrade excused himself, leaving Anne to ponder various information on her cab ride home about the case and also about this woman, Irene Adler. Lestrade claimed that Sherlock could have had her years ago and turned her down. But time can change things and maybe he was taking that opportunity now. Once she was back at Baker Street, she immediately went to John, who was reading in the green chair,  
"John, tell me everything you know about Irene Adler and Sherlock."


	11. Chapter 11

Meanwhile, after leaving the crime scene, Sherlock has accompanied Irene back to the hotel room she had decided to book, feeling that Baker Street was getting a bit crowded with four people attempting to live there. He wanted to pick her brain about these victims, try to find a link between the poems and their murders. For days, he just sat writing notes, talking to himself, going over every possible detail. Irene slept on and off, providing information where she could. Finally, in a moment of frustration, Sherlock stood up from the table where he was standing,  
"It doesn't make sense! There is no connection between these murders and the poems. Most of the victims don't even have deep hidden secrets, at least none worth killing for. Why is he doing this?"  
Irene walked over to him, forcing him to sit down and take a breath.  
"I think you just need a break for a bit. I can think of a few good ways to do that," she said, leaning down to whisper in his ear.  
"What? No," he said, pulling away from her.  
Irene, surrendering, sat down across the table from him.  
"What makes her so special?"  
"Who?"  
"This girlfriend of yours. Anne."  
"She's me."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean she is essentially the female embodiment of me."  
Sherlock then spent the next hour telling Irene the whole story of how he met Anne, how she helped him solve the book thief case, and how eventually, after trying to deny it, it was pointed out to them that they loved each other and how they were perfect for each other.  
"I know I told you once that sentiment is weakness but she is the exception to that rule. Our sentiment for each other is our strength."  
"Well that's the key to the case right there."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean, I don't think this message was meant for you; it was meant for Anne. She is his new plaything and he is playing solely to her strengths, not yours. Also, I think he is jealous...and panicked. He might have been able to eventually take one of you down but not together. You're too strong for him. That is why he sent me the pictures; I don't actually have anything to do with this. He just wanted me back in town so Anne would get possessive, jealous and he could split you two apart."   
"Jealous? Why would she be jealous?"  
"Come now...you can't really be that naive still. A beautiful woman who you have a history with comes back into your life and monopolizes your time? I'd be jealous too."  
"You haven't been monopolizing my time."  
"Oh haven't I? I have been in town almost a week and how much have you seen Anne since then? And who did you take to the crime scene?"  
"Well, that..."  
"And how long have you been away from her and in a hotel room with me?"  
"I don't know," he admitted, an actual frown crossing his face and sorrow in his eyes.  
"Three days Sherlock. Now, I would really love to keep you but I don't want to see that psychopath win. So, go back to her and show her you always belong to her...before she belongs to someone else."  
Without another thought, Sherlock packed up his notes and hailed a taxi.


	12. Chapter 12

Back at Baker Street, John had just finished explaining the entire story of the woman known as Irene Adler. Anne had to take a moment, sinking down on the sulking couch.  
"So, she did like him?"  
"Yes, that is what I gathered."  
"And...he was interested in her too."  
"Well, I admit I thought so at the time, but then I saw him with you, and I think he was just intent on beating her."  
"But he could like her, now. I mean, back then, he didn't have any relationship experience but now...now he is not quite as opposed to sentiment as before...and..."  
"No, he is just not opposed to sentiment when it comes to you. You are the one exception. I am pretty sure you are the one person in his entire life Sherlock Holmes has actually loved. And that's because you are him."  
"That's just him. He is me and I get bored...so why shouldn't he get bored too? Irene is beautiful and intriguing. I guess I just need to accept the fact that he and I are done and he has moved on."  
With that, Anne curled up on the couch, turning her back to John and he could tell she was crying; it was a shock because he had never once seen her cry. Going over to her, he put his hand on her shoulder and encouraged her to sit up, She leaned into John's arms, showing more vulnerability than he ever knew she was capable of showing. Reaching down, he ran his thumb along her cheek, trying to wipe away the tears, when she turned her head up to him. Before he processed what had happened, Anne had pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply. Without processing what he was doing, John began kissing her back, wrapping his hand behind her neck and pulling her closer. As Anne was sliding her hands up his chest, John's logic returned and he promptly broke the kiss, pushing back from her,  
"Wait...no...we can't do this."  
"Why not?"  
"Why not? You're my best friend's girlfriend. That's why not; I could never do this to Sherlock."  
"Well he's cheating on me."  
"You don't know that."  
"It doesn't have to be something physical to cheat. Mentally, he is cheating on me...running his cases past her, taking her to crime scenes."  
"Ok...I'm going to pretend I'm Sherlock and that somehow makes sense. But, even if you two were broken up, I shouldn't be doing this. You don't snog with your best friend's girl."  
"John...are you honestly going to tell me that Sherlock would abide by that rule were things reversed? Or are you even going to tell me that he would remotely care about your sex life in any way?"  
"Well, no, he has always not shown an interest…and definitely wrecked my relationships on multiple occasions and…."  
"Exactly..."Anne said, slipping her fingers into his hair and bringing her lips to meet his again.  
"I am a very bad person," John murmured, as Anne began to kiss him, his arms instinctually wrapping around her waist. But they didn't get to continue past that as a loud throat clear broke them apart. At the door stood Sherlock, just looking at his flatmate and his girlfriend on the couch; the look on his face was unreadable. He moved towards them, picking Anne up without a word, throwing her over his shoulder and moving towards his bedroom. As he was rounding the corner, he called over his shoulder,  
"John, now would probably be an appropriate time for you to leave."  
John didn't have to be told twice.

. . .

"Sherlock, put me down right now!"  
"Why?"  
"Because I'm not a bag of groceries."  
Sherlock set her down on the floor and just looked at her. She crossed her arms and glared at him while a smirk appeared on his face. Without warning, he reached his hand down to her face and kissed her more passionately than anything she had experienced from him before. She kissed him back for a moment before remembering she was mad at him and pulled away.  
"No, you don't get to kiss me!"  
"Why? Would you rather be out there snogging with John?" he responded condescendingly.  
"Wouldn't you rather be somewhere going over cases with Irene?"  
Anne knew she had taken it too far when the sadness appeared in his eyes, something she had never seen before.  
"No...I wouldn't. That is a privilege reserved for you."  
"Well, it sure hasn't seemed like it lately."  
"I know. And for that I apologize. It has been made clear to me that I have not been demonstrating to you lately that I am yours and yours alone."  
At this, he gazed down at his girlfriend, lifting her head so that she would meet his eyes.  
"And you are just as much mine. Are we clear?"  
Anne nodded, a smile beginning to play across her face, causing one to appear on his. And with that, he leaned down to kiss her again, playfully shoving her onto the bed and crawling on top of her. They worked their way up to the top of the bed still kissing, Sherlock tugging on her hair as she started undoing the buttons on his purple shirt. She moaned into his mouth as his hands found their way lower and he began reaching his fingers up under her tight green top. Once she had the last button of his shirt undone, she surprised Sherlock, flipping him over so she was on top, then leaning down to place a line of kisses down his neck before sucking a large dark mark onto his collarbone. He gasped as she ran her tongue over the mark, before leaning back and smiling down at him.  
"There...now there will be no doubt in anyone's mind that you are mine."  
An evil grin crossed his face as he growled and flipped her back over, leaning down to suck his own mark on the side of her neck while he pinned her wrists to the bed. He took a moment to sit back and admire his work, before once again running his hands up her shirt, removing it in one swift motion,  
"Now, let's see what other marks I can make," he said, leaning into kiss her again as her hands began working on removing his belt.


	13. Chapter 13

The next morning, Sherlock and Anne stood in the kitchen, making breakfast together, both wrapped up in the sheet. Between their cooking, they were exchanging kisses and cheeky glances.  
"Oh god," John said, coming into the kitchen, "I think I liked it better when you two were fighting. And, please tell me at least one of you is dressed beneath that sheet."  
"Yes John, don't worry. I have my pajamas on, I promise," Anne said, stepping away from the sheet.  
"Although you could probably fix that after a bit more snogging if you like," Sherlock told him, just looking at him.  
John tried to gauge Sherlock's emotions about this, fearing he was angry, but then he noticed that the detective's eyes were smiling, even if his mouth wasn't.  
"So, you're not mad? About Anne and I, you know…?"  
"Not at all. I know she was simply getting revenge on me. You're not really her type John."  
"Well that's good...wait a minute, what do you mean I'm not her type?"  
Sherlock didn't answer, just gave his flatmate a snarky smile before turning around and slapping Anne's ass incredibly hard with a riding crop he had left on the counter after one of his experiments.  
"Hey!" she screeched, slapping him back before giving him a quick kiss.  
"Yeah, I don't like this side of the relationship. You two should go back to fighting, much less nauseating," John said, pouring himself a cup of coffee and making his way to the sitting room.  
After they had finished breakfast, they were all sitting in living room, John in his chair and Sherlock and Anne curled together on the couch in the sheet. Suddenly, both Sherlock and Anne’s phones went off at the same time with a text from Greg; another victim had been found, at London Planetarium. They exchanged a look, got ready, and were off with barely a goodbye to John. Upon arriving at the scene, they immediately moved into their old routine, putting on gloves and examining the body, the victim this time unfortunately being a woman, hanged by her long hair from the ceiling. As Sherlock examined the body, Anne removed her gloves and took the envelope from Greg, who eyed the mark on her neck, having noticed the one on Sherlock’s collarbone earlier. She removed the poem inside, once again reading aloud,

The rain set early in to-night,  
The sullen wind was soon awake,  
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,  
And did its worst to vex the lake:  
I listened with heart fit to break.  
When glided in Porphyria; straight  
She shut the cold out and the storm,  
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate  
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;  
Which done, she rose, and from her form  
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,  
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied  
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,  
And, last, she sat down by my side  
And called me. When no voice replied,  
She put my arm about her waist,  
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,  
And all her yellow hair displaced,  
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,  
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,  
Murmuring how she loved me — she  
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,  
To set its struggling passion free  
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,  
And give herself to me for ever.  
But passion sometimes would prevail,  
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain  
A sudden thought of one so pale  
For love of her, and all in vain:  
So, she was come through wind and rain.  
Be sure I looked up at her eyes  
Happy and proud; at last I knew  
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise  
Made my heart swell, and still it grew  
While I debated what to do.  
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,  
Perfectly pure and good: I found  
A thing to do, and all her hair  
In one long yellow string I wound  
Three times her little throat around,  
And strangled her. No pain felt she;  
I am quite sure she felt no pain.  
As a shut bud that holds a bee,  
I warily oped her lids: again  
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.  
And I untightened next the tress  
About her neck; her cheek once more  
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:  
I propped her head up as before,  
Only, this time my shoulder bore  
Her head, which droops upon it still:  
The smiling rosy little head,  
So glad it has its utmost will,  
That all it scorned at once is fled,  
And I, its love, am gained instead!  
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how  
Her darling one wish would be heard.  
And thus we sit together now,  
And all night long we have not stirred,  
And yet God has not said a word!

Anne finished and looked at Sherlock,  
“Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning.”  
The two detectives nodded at each other and silently left the crime scene; they had much thinking to do. And having finally gotten their differences sorted out, they felt more capable and more intelligent than ever. They arrived home, pouring over books, websites, notes, photographs; there was a connection to be made and they would find it somewhere. Suddenly, it hit Anne, out of nowhere, just one little history fact staring at her from the page.  
“The Lake by Edgar Allan Poe first appeared in 1827, the same year The London Standard was launched,” Anne whispered to herself.  
“What?” Sherlock asked.  
“I think I’ve got it; I have our connection. But I need to think.”  
Anne quickly vanished from the room, removing her clothes and jumping into the shower, her best thinking place. She had a lot of things to consider. About thirty minutes later, Sherlock pulled aside the curtain, joining her, waiting for her to explain her theory.  
“The Lake was published in 1827, the same year The London Standard was started.”  
“So?”  
“So? Where did we find the next body?”  
“The London Standard. Does this hold true for all the poems?”  
“I thought about that and yes. Jabberwocky was published in 1871, the same year Parliament passed the Bank Holiday Act, and the next body we found was at the Bank of England where we found Aftermath, published in 1963, same year the Water Resources Act was passed, thus we find the next body drowned in the river with the poem The Lake, which I already explained. At The London Standard the poem is I Died For Beauty, published in 1890, the same year the New Scotland Yard opened its doors which is where we find the next body.”  
“Wait, when was there a victim at Scotland Yard?”  
“Oh sorry, that happened while you were with Irene. Don’t worry, I went.”  
“By yourself?”  
“Yeah.”  
Sherlock looked at her with a look of pride,  
“And what poem was found there?”   
“An excerpt from Peyote Poem published 1958.”   
“Same year the planetarium opened?”  
“Exactly.”  
“How do you know all this? These historical facts and such?”  
“I studied history at University. My specialty was European History.”  
“My god, she was right.”   
“Who was? About what?”  
“Irene. She said that this case wasn’t about me; it was about you. Moriarty is playing with you now, like a new toy. She also said he was hoping to break us up because knows we are practically unstoppable together.”  
Sherlock reached behind her, turning the water off, Anne still trying to process what he had just said about Moriarty and her being the new toy.   
“When was Porphyria’s Lover published?”   
“1836...same year the University of London opened. The library!”  
“Of course...the library. I have a feeling this is his big finale.”  
“I think so too.”


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock and Anne jumped out of the shower, dressing as fast as they could, and headed over to the university, going directly the library.  
“It is bound to have something to do with the poetry section,” Anne said.  
She and her boyfriend quickly started making their way through the darkened shelves to the poetry section when a voice came over the speaker, a voice distinctively Moriarty, sultry, low, and dripping with that hint of crazy.

So far as our story approaches the end,    
Which do you pity the most of us three?---    
My friend, or the mistress of my friend    
With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose,    
And seemed in the way of improvement yet,    
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose    
And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,    
A shame, said I, if she adds just him    
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,    
The hundredth for a whim!

And before my friend be wholly hers,    
How easy to prove to him, I said,    
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,    
Though she snaps at a wren instead!

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,    
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,    
And round she turned for my noble sake,    
And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,    
The wren is he, with his maiden face.  ---  
You look away and your lip is curled?    
Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaling and white;    
He eyes me as the basilisk:    
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,    
Eclipsing his sun's disk.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:    
`Though I love her---that, he comprehends---    
One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)   
And be loyal to one's friends!''

And she,---she lies in my hand as tame    
As a pear late basking over a wall;    
Just a touch to try and off it came;    
'Tis mine,---can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!    
Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?    
'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst    
When I gave its stalk a twist.

And I,---what I seem to my friend, you see:    
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:    
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?    
No hero, I confess.

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,    
And matter enough to save one's own:    
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals    
He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth;    
That the woman was light is very true:    
But suppose she says,---Never mind that youth!    
What wrong have I done to you?

Well, any how, here the story stays,    
So far at least as I understand;    
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,    
Here's a subject made to your hand!”

Sherlock and Anne looked around them, knowing he must be close at hand, as he paused at the end of his poem.  
“What poem is that?” Sherlock asked her.  
“A Light Woman by Robert Browning. Creepily fitting if you ask me.”  
“Agreed.”  
Their conversation was cut short by Moriarty’s voice once again booming over the speaker.  
“I must admit I’m impressed. I thought this poem would be perfect when I had separated you two and had Anne all to myself. But my new toy proves to be even more clever than she lets on. And your relationship proves to be remarkably resilient, something I never would have imagined, not with the heartless Sherlock Holmes. But who am I to talk? Guess that just means I will have to try harder next time! Ciao!”  
And both of them knew Moriarty was gone...for now.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock and Anne returned to Baker Street, content that there would be no more victims but disappointed that they no longer had a problem to solve...and that Moriarty got away again. The two of them were just settling in on the couch when Alice walked in, having just returned from holiday the night before.  
“How was your trip?”   
“Great. I actually met someone.”  
“You did? What’s his name?”  
“Eowyn. He is picking me up for dinner in about an hour. I got ready early and decided to come see if you were up here. Anything big happen while I was gone?”  
“No, not much,” Anne said.

. . .

Having wandered back down to her flat when Sherlock and Anne started getting affectionate and uncomfortable, Alice sat waiting for Eowyn. They had met the first day of her holiday and she spent a considerable amount of time with him during the few weeks she was there. He had family in London and decided to stay with them for a bit so he could visit her. Right at seven, there was a knock on the door of her flat. Alice straightened a wrinkle on her purple dress and went to meet her date.  
He took her to his favorite pub which was a few blocks away. They sat and ate, talking and laughing, when Alice noticed someone she knew come walking through the door, Greg. Despite how much she enjoyed the company of the attractive Scottish man in front of her, it was truly Greg who still made her heart skip a beat. But he didn’t feel the same and Alice was determined that she would not look like a heartbroken fool in front of him, laughing loudly at Eowyn’s jokes as she reached across to take his hand. Greg picked up the take-away he had ordered, making eye contact with Alice as he walked out the door; both of their hearts ached.  
Alice and Eowyn finished their last drinks and he walked her back to her flat. When they reached her front door, his hands wrapped around her waist as his emerald eyes stared down at her.  
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” he crooned in his Scottish brogue.  
“I did too,” Alice said, although her heart felt a bit confused at the whole thing.  
Eowyn moved his hand to her chin and captured her lips in a searing kiss, pressing her back against her door. Her hands ran into his blonde-brown hair as she deepened the kiss. They stood in that moment for awhile, lips moving against each other, until they finally broke apart. Eowyn kissed her once more on the cheek and said goodnight. But Alice knew it was goodbye; it had to be. She couldn’t be dating someone while she was still in love with someone else.


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning, Alice was laying in front of the fire in her flat, sipping coffee and reading in her pajamas. She assumed Anne was still upstairs with Sherlock; they had seemed different when she saw them yesterday but she didn’t know why. Although, she had definitely noticed the dark hickey on Anne’s neck which seemed to match the one on Sherlock’s collarbone. Trying not to think of the implications of that, Alice returned her thoughts to her book, when there was knock on her door. Confused, she went to open it. Outside, stood Greg, holding a cup of coffee.  
“I brought you a vanilla latte.”  
Alice graciously accepted it, taking a sip, but still confused as to his the reason for his visit.  
“Thank you,” she said.  
“Can I come in?”  
Alice was hesitant but moved aside, letting the Detective Inspector in and closing the door behind him.  
“Can we talk?”  
“You know, last time you said that to me, I didn’t really like the outcome.”   
“I know. That’s kind of why I’m here. See, I made a mistake, breaking up with you. I did it to protect you but that was stupid of me. You don’t need protection; I know you can take care of yourself. And honestly, Moriarty is always going to be around...or guys like him will. But that doesn’t change anything. These last two months have been the worst ones of my life; I have missed you so much. Now, I don’t know who that guy you were with last night is, but I do know this; there is no way he loves you the way that I do. Alice,” Greg said, moving closer to her and taking her hand, “I honestly can’t live without you. Please take me back.”  
Alice wanted to protest, wanted to make him hurt the way she had been hurting lately, but one look in his eyes told her that he had been suffering even more. Alice set her latte on the table next to her, then reached her arms up and laced them behind Greg’s neck, bringing his mouth down to hers and kissing him with every ounce of love she felt. Greg instantly wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her hard against him, not wanting to let her go ever again. They finally broke apart and Greg smiled down at her, kissing her forehead.  
“So, does this make me your boyfriend again?”  
Alice smirked at him as she began to lead him into the bedroom, already starting to unbutton his shirt.  
“You tell me,” she said, bringing his mouth down to hers again as he walked her backwards into the bedroom and shut the door.


	17. Chapter 17

A few weeks later, the five of them were all sitting in 221B, as if nothing unusual had happened. Alice was once again in Greg’s lap and they were exchanging kisses back and forth, not really trying to be subtle about it. What did they care? They had a lot of time to make up for. Sherlock and Anne were on the couch again but in a slightly different configuration than normal. Anne was sitting up with Sherlock’s head in her lap, playing with his curls while he fiddled around with his pistol, taking occasional shots at the wall. It was clear boredom had set in again for both of them. After awhile there seemed to be a lull in conversation and Alice and Greg moved quickly from stealing occasional kisses to just full on snogging on the chair. John decided that was quite enough for him and went to find Mrs. Hudson or someone...anyone...to spend some time with. Anne was trying to distract Sherlock from his gun, running her fingers beneath his shirt to draw messages on his chest with her nails.   
Alice and Greg decided that their activities were getting a bit much for the small space of the chair, not to mention two of their best friends were sitting about ten feet away, and stood to go down to Alice’s flat. By the time they had reached the front door, Alice had completely undone all of the buttons on his shirt. They managed to get the door open, Greg’s shirt coming off completely the moment they closed it behind them. He then scooped Alice up, her legs coming around his waist and he kissed her passionately, tongue gliding along the edge of her lips before pushing inside her mouth, His fingers danced and teased over the spot on her spine, causing her to moan and grip his hair tight as she kissed him back. Once he set her on the bed, he wasted no time in removing the khaki dress she was wearing, her hands making quick work of the buttons on his trousers and sliding them off him. He finally broke away from her lips, kissing a line down her neck, past her collarbone, and to the top of her chest as she sighed, running her nails up his back. He pulled away from her a moment, looking down at her.  
“You are so beautiful,” he said, placing a light kiss on her lips, “and I plan to show you that in every possible way tonight, until you are convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I love you and promise never to leave you again.”  
Alice leaned up to kiss him passionately, breaking away long enough to say,  
“You know, I was planning on showing you the same thing,” as she ran her hands down his chest, both of them working to remove the few remaining articles of clothing.

. . .

Back upstairs, Anne had grown of tired of teasing Sherlock, fully aware that his attention was on the gun and not on her. Typical. So, she stood from the couch, wandering into the bedroom, removing her clothes and crawling in the comfy bed. It was unlikely Sherlock would join her tonight considering he had just slept the night before. However, ten minutes later, just as she was drifting off, a deep voice spoke to her from the doorway,  
“Why did you leave?”   
“I was bored.”   
Sherlock wandered over the bed and joined her under the covers, instantly crawling on top of her, pinning her down.   
“Still bored?” he said, leaning down to bite down hard on her earlobe, causing her to barely gasp out a “no” in response. He then slowly kissed a line down her neck, making sure to leave at least three new dark marks on her skin. Leaning in, he licked a line across her collarbone, his curls barely brushing against her neck. Anne struggled a bit beneath him, wanting to touch him, but he kept her wrists firmly held to the bed.  
“Sherlock!” she protested, as he tightened his grip, giving him a frustrated yet amused grin as he leaned in to kiss back up the other side of her neck.  
“Yes my dear?”  
“Why are you still dressed?!”  
“Because it bothers you.”  
She just gave him a look as he leaned his lips down to hers, but stopped before he made any contact with hers, and she could practically feel the cheeky smirk on his face as he held his face there for a moment, then pulled away to look down at her again.  
“Sherlock please!”  
“Oh, are we begging now?”  
“I never beg.”  
“Hmmm...well, I think I rather like the idea of it. In fact, by the end of the night, I think I will have you begging for me...twice.”  
And with that he finally released her wrists, capturing her mouth with his, gripping his fingers in her hair, as she quickly removed the pajamas he had on. 


End file.
